Looking at this girl, a sense of failure swept over him. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. Frequently she would doze in her chair; but the slightest movement on the bed aroused her. Gianfrancesco’s had curved differently and was darker. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978.
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